


Allegiance

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Magic, M/M, psychopaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-10-28 19:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: The night Barty Crouch meets Tom Riddle.





	Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DarknessReigns](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DarknessReigns) collection. 

> This was a fun mindset to explore! I never write true dark fic, but this would totally go down that path if it was longer. Thanks to the Death Eater Groupies for putting on this fest! <3
> 
> **Prompt:** Barty Crouch Jr meets a handsome, charismatic Tom Riddle for the first time.

It was warm. Unseasonably so.

When Barty’s tongue darted out between his lips, he could taste the rain that would soon drench Little Hangleton. But that didn’t bother him. He’d be inside the looming mansion in the distance then.

Bellatrix Lestrange dragged him up the cobblestone path with her hand twisted into his robes. Barty allowed it -- she was a crazy bird, but he’d never known her to be this excited for anything. He could practically hear her heart fluttering about like a caged snitch. It ramped up his own excitement for what was coming.

A new world.

A new order.

Everything Barty had wished for from a very young age.

Oh sure; he’d listened to father talk about the direction of the Ministry. How they were trying to hide the importance of blood status in glib legislation and under pedantic diatribes at the Wizengamot. But, Barty didn’t want it. No. He was special. Pureblooded. Sacred.

And no Mudblood should be allowed to cast a shadow on his importance.

It really burned him up. To pretend to be the prodigal son, the humble pureblood boy, the  _ mundane _ child of a politician. He’d had enough.

As Bella shoved him through the front door of the manor, Barty could taste the intrigue on the air. The dark magic clung to the air and sizzled invisibly as he walked through it and down a long corridor toward a blazing fire.

A tall man in a high backed chair sat facing the doorway Barty was pushed through. A handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes and a dark aura that tasted like candy and alcohol and all of the things that society said were bad for him. And he wanted it, wanted whatever this man had, immediately.

It took him no time to kneel in front of the man. To bow his head. To bare himself vulnerable and pliant.

“Bellatrix, leave us.” The man’s serpentine voice slithered through the room. He stood, draped in black robes and barefoot. Bellatrix must have left them, as the man’s hand came down softly and lifted Barty’s chin up. “Hello, Bartemius.”

Barty swallowed thickly as his eyes met the deepest pool of black he’d ever seen. “My Lord.”

Soft fingers slid from his chin, along his jaw, and to his hair. They tangled in the roots and, though snug, lifted Barty gently to his feet. Barty was shorter and leaner in the shadow of Tom Riddle’s frame, but rather than intimidated, he felt safe.

He’d never felt safe a day in his life until then.

The realization swept through him as his tongue darted out and moistened his lips.

Tom caught the movement and watched the tip sink back into its velvety home, before bringing his gaze back to Barty’s greedy stare.

“Bellatrix speaks very highly of your skill,” he said after a moment, allowing his hand to drop from Barty’s hair and rest at his side. “I find myself in need of… unquestionable loyalty and unparalleled magical skill.”

“I am at your service,” Barty answered immediately, no breath of pause between their words. “For whatever you may need, My Lord.”

“When I was a younger man, I found myself curious.” Tom Riddle stepped away from Barty and turned to gaze out the window into the black of night. Barty followed his steps and swept his eyes through the darkness, seeing nothing but the rain he’d predicted earlier. “Power is a fickle thing, you see. It is, at its core, limitless, and only by our own lack of creativity is there an end to what it can do and what it can be.”

Barty wasn’t ashamed to admit that the conversation turned him on. He’d always felt power differently to his classmates and his family. It ran through him like a river, babbling along his nerves and lighting his soul on fire. No one got it. No one, until now. He nodded emphatically but silently and watched as The Dark Lord’s eyes met his in the window pane.

“What is it that makes you curious, Bartemius?” His name was a purr on Tom’s lips. Thunder clapped in the distance. Lightning struck.

Barty raised his hand, clenched it into a fist, and laid it against the center of his chest. His tongue swiped his lip and his eyes darkened. “I feel magic here. Itchy, raucous magic. Cheering Charms don’t temper it, but I--”

Tom turned to him. His eyes glinted as a sharp breath hissed through his nose. “You what? Tell me what you feel.”

Barty wanted nothing more than to sink into The Dark Lord. To mold to him, to curl up in the glory of his dark magic. If he wasn’t so concerned with being accepted within his ranks, Barty would have sank to his knees and taken as much of him as Tom would allow. His tongue pressed relentlessly against his sharp incisor.

“I like dark magic,” he admitted out loud, quite possibly for the first time. “I enjoy the way it moves from here-” he slammed his fist against his chest, “-to here-” hand molded to his groin. There was something of a triumphant smirk on his Dark Lord’s face.

“Your baser magical urges are similar to those of Bellatrix,” Tom said with a loving caress. His hand reached out and stroked the side of Barty’s face. His entire world faded into black and then burst into light, gut clenching and reeling under the rush of magical energy between them. “I will so enjoy having the pair of you serving my cause.”

Barty’s magic zinged again. His whole body thrummed under the praise. “You’ll take me on, then?”

“Swear your allegiance to me, Bartemius.” Tom reached forward and held Barty’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Take my mark, and I promise that you will never have to hide your magic again.”

“I swear.” It left him like a wish, quick and hopeful and breathless. 

Barty held out his arm, pulled back his dark robes, and keened under the grasp of Tom’s long fingers. The Dark Lord’s knotted wand met the skin of his forearm and Barty gritted his teeth. He’d seen Bella’s mark, heard the story of how it bled into her skin and burned away her allegiance to anyone else -- family, friends, and even her lover. Barty  _ wanted  _ it. He needed it.

Tom spoke the word, “Morsmordre.”

As the magic painted his skin and stained it with a twisting, black skull and snake, Barty smiled. A big, deep, perfectly white grin that lifted his cheeks all the way to his eyes. His magic sang, a pulsing melody that thrummed from his heart to his groin, connecting the two for the first time in his life. An invisible thread. A bond. Loyalty.

His allegiance was sealed, even as the tattoo burned through his muscle and sunk into his bones. Barty didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze was heavy lidded, desirous.

On one dark and stormy night, Barty Crouch found his forever.


End file.
